


We Will Win, Of Course

by Magismol143



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Death, Flowers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Recovery, Symbolism, The Apocalypse, gravestone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:14:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magismol143/pseuds/Magismol143
Summary: Aziraphale goes out to meet with an old friend.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	We Will Win, Of Course

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very sorry.  
> (Art is by me: @magismol-v on tumblr)

“You’re going out there _again?”_

Aziraphale sighed wearily, lifting the book in his hands, a hefty volume with golden clasps. The physical weight was immaterial to an angel, but still his arm dragged as he brought it up onto its respective shelf. “Of course, Theliel. You know how long it’s been. Why would I stop now?”

Theliel was a spindly angel with an eager disposition, well-meaning, but quite naive when it came to important matters. He helped Aziraphale out around the Library, when anything really needed to be done, but more often than not he was simply a conversation partner. Aziraphale walked back out into the middle of the Library and took his coat off of the only chair in the room, the one behind the desk he usually sat at. Theliel was standing beside it with his arms folded, wings a bit ruffled.

“Alright, I know. Still, why won’t you tell me who this friend of yours is?”

Aziraphale leisurely threaded his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, not looking at the other angel. He adjusted his pristine white bowtie before finally responding. “I don’t think he would like it if I told you,” he spoke softly.

Theliel simply frowned. “You know… at this point I’m not even sure he’s real,” he scoffed, and turned to walk around behind the desk, taking a seat where Aziraphale usually was. He would be taking the principality’s post while he was absent.

It was no matter; Aziraphale didn’t need Theliel to understand. He sighed again, walking up to the grand archway that marked the entrance to the Library; Heaven didn’t believe in closed doors, especially in a building that was meant for public traffic. Nestled in the corners on either side of the archway, where most angels wouldn’t care to look, Aziraphale kept two pots of flowers. On the left were red tulips, and on the right were white lilies. He stepped forward and picked a few of each to carry with him on his way out into the gleaming brilliance of the Silver City.

And it _was_ rather lovely, the city. There was not a speck of dirt or decay anywhere–angels flew by in the air and walked down the streets, free of smog and fumes and automobiles. There was no need for things like that.

Most angels didn’t carry their weapons on them anymore. Aziraphale’s sword remained on his hip almost always; it was out of habit. There was no real use for it anymore. Aziraphale wished he could get rid of it. As the principality limped through the pristine streets, he avoided the gazes of other angels and held his flowers closer to himself.

Only when the sounds of the chorals and harps faded behind him did Aziraphale finally start to relax. He glanced behind himself once he was far enough away, taking in the gleaming skyline of the city and making sure he wasn’t being followed. It was beautiful, shining with holy glory. Aziraphale turned and kept walking up the hill.

Despite how often he had done it, Aziraphale was out of breath by the time he crested the top of the hill. He stopped and caught his breath, smiling slightly before he continued forward to settle down on the grass next to Crowley.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the halo of light that seemed to form around the Silver City in the distance.

“The flowers are doing well,” Aziraphale spoke, clearing his throat. He glanced down at them, limp in his hands. “Thank you for the advice, on how to take care of them. I’ve talked to them as much as I can…”

The silence fell between them again. Aziraphale was used to it.

“You know, Crowley,” he started again. His voice started to waver. “I just wanted to–to thank you, for everything. Being there for me. I just wish I could’ve done the same for you… I wasn’t even there when-”

He broke off; took a breath. Continued.

“That doesn’t matter now, though, does it? We did all we could… but it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry, my dear boy…”

Aziraphale set the flowers aside, and let his face fall into his hands. His shoulders shook as he cried for the first time in the past century. Somewhere above, in Heaven’s heavens, the clouds darkened and wept with him. A slow drizzle at first, growing heavier into a steady pour. Aziraphale lifted his head gently, looking up and letting the droplets splash against his face, tears mixing with the rain. The water soaked his clothes and sizzled against the hilt of his sword. Aziraphale sniffed back the tears and looked over at Crowley again. The unmarked gravestone that he had put there himself, so many millennia ago. The only thing that had remained of the demon who was too kind for his own good was a pair of Valentino sunglasses, and he had buried them right here on this hill, where no angels would care to venture. It was the only piece of Crowley that he had left, after the Holy Water had gotten to him. And all the rest of Hell, for that matter.

Aziraphale wiped his face on the edge of his sleeve, starting to get soaked through by the rain. He reached over and picked up the flowers, pawing at the ground with his other hand, the dirt coming up in muddy clumps. After he had slipped the stems into the soil, he pushed it back over the hole he had made to secure the flowers. With shaky hands, he snapped his fingers. The flowers would take root, with the help of the miracle and the rain.

Feeling a bit better about himself, Aziraphale climbed unsteadily to his feet. He didn’t look at the gravestone, watching the blurred city skyline as he opened his wings, the rain instantly soaking them through. With a small shiver, Aziraphale opened his left wing and held it out over Crowley to protect him from the rain one last time.

“Crowley, I just… can’t keep coming here, to talk with you. It… it hurts, too much.” Aziraphale hung his head shamefully. “I’m sorry.”

The demon didn’t respond. Aziraphale remained standing there in reverent silence, possibly praying, possibly not. Finally, he folded his wing with a small shiver, and walked back down the hill to the Silver City.

A hundred years later, Aziraphale would look out at the hills beyond the city, see them covered in red and white blooms, and smile.


End file.
